34
The silence hangs in the stale air at the back of the bus between the two of you.
Two young human beings who are starkingly aware of the aftermath of your unresolved argument from earlier on.
Your families disapprove of each other. Each sound of disapproval is ironic because religions stand together preaching for love, peace and humanity yet frowns upon each other when in full confrontation.
Being helplessly cultured into different beliefs, the both of you found yourselves engaging in a heated argument over who is actually right about God last night.
A helpless argument that is a mere plea from both parties to find common ground from the sea of differences that is drowning their relationship.
The bus jerks forward and you too lurch forward from your seat. His arm reaches out in front of you instinctively and catches your falling torso. You stiffen your back and the frown forms across your forehead again.
"I'm still mad at you." , you speak in your head as you turn to look into his face. His face.
For a moment all the reasons and defensive arguments that you've listed in your mind fades into nothingness and all you see, is the face of a boy whom was encased into your mind months ago, the face of a boy whom you think of first thing in the morning and last when you fall asleep.
And in that face you saw a pained expression through those almond eyes which you've looked into so many times that you can almost, read them. Almost, because as much as you think you are telepathic, you can never be accurate when making guesses on your own without a tallying answer to check.
You feel your jaw unclenching, your eyes softening and your lips unwinding from a harsh pursed line into a subtle downward curving pout.
You aren't mad anymore.
You heave a little sigh and he pulls your arm into his own, holding your hands in his like how a child would tend to a wounded cat; gently. A wave of fatigue gushes over you, and you place your head into the comforting contours of his shoulder, exhausted from the fight.
He turns to look at you, with a new found expression of pain, one tinged with a slight sadness that only you understood and he asked softly but just loud enough to know it was meant with all seriousness, "How? What are we going to do?".
You hold his gaze for a few moments before looking down into your interlocking fingers and answer in what you hope sounds convincing enough, "I don't know, but... everything will be okay".
With that, he gives your hand a squeeze and you hold fiercely and tightly on to it.
As if a tighter grip can undo what both of you already know, but you both try hard to believe in what you said anyway, that everything will be... okay.